


The Ice Prince [REUPLOAD/REWRITE]

by deripmaver



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Child Abuse, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Eventual Happy Ending, Forced Prostitution, Gang Rape, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Imperialism, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, M/M, Past Sexual Abuse, Past Torture, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prostitution, Psychological Trauma, Public Humiliation, Rape Aftermath, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rebellion, Sexual Slavery, Slavery, Suicide Attempt, Torture, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 18:53:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25670140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deripmaver/pseuds/deripmaver
Summary: Yuuri Katsuki is the shy, nervous, completely illegitimate heir to Lord Cialdini, chief adviser to the king, a position he managed to acquire after a life of hardship and heartbreak. But the past has a way of coming back to haunt him, and a chance trip to a city whorehouse finds him reunited with his boyhood love - a slave named Victor that Yuuri had long believed to be dead.Yuuri immediately realizes he needs to somehow free Victor if they're going to be together, but nothing is as simple as it should be - and in a cutthroat political court, no one is as kind as they seem.[reupload/rewrite after I orphaned this and all my other fic semi by accident]
Relationships: Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov, Otabek Altin/Yuri Plisetsky, Phichit Chulanont/Celestino Cialdini, Victor Nikiforov/Original Character(s)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 35





	The Ice Prince [REUPLOAD/REWRITE]

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Golden Bird: Part I](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20773838) by [pierrot_dreams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pierrot_dreams/pseuds/pierrot_dreams). 



> HELLO IT'S ANGST TIME
> 
> READ THE TAGS!!!!!
> 
> i started writing this back in 2016/2017 because I was absolutely obsessed with this ao3 original work called "The Golden Bird" (linked above) which had unfortunately gone un-updated since 2014. i wrote this because i needed catharsis!!! however, two things have happened since then: i've written a LOT more fic, so the quality of this one wasn't quite up to my new standard, and also OMG Y'ALL THE GOLDEN BIRD STARTED BEING UPDATED AGAIN!!!!!
> 
> i highly, HIGHHHHHLYYYYYY encourage you to read it. it's truly a masterpiece in storytelling. it being updated/rewritten made me want to take a look at this ol' thing and start going at it again! it's pretty similar to the golden bird at the beginning, but in my rewrites im trying to make it into its own thing. 
> 
> i hope you enjoy this fic, read the fucken tags i beg of u. this chapter 1 is the first three chapters originally posted of the ice prince on ao3

The sweet, delicate champagne had long since lost its subtlety on Yuuri’s tongue. The art of detecting flavors was mostly nonsense, in his humble opinion, but as the evening wore on he stopped attempting to spit out platitudes like _hint of lemon_ and _refreshing, cool flavor._ He was so drunk that Phichit could have been foisting cheap, two penny wine on him and he wouldn’t have noticed - in fact, he had a sneaking suspicion that’s exactly what his friend was doing.

Phichit leaned against him, nuzzled his nose against his collarbone, and made soft, sweet noises into his neck.

Where were they, again?

Yuuri blinked against some bright, artificial light bouncing off gaudy, golden curtains and shimmering frescoes of - was that…?

A bright flush that had nothing to do with alcohol lit up Yuuri’s cheeks. Painted in gleaming white against lush, too-green grass were pornographic scenes of sensual pleasure - lascivious, sultry bodies wrapped around eachother.

Men with too-large cocks, women whose breasts spilled out from unlaced corsets, and, to Yuuri’s distaste, men and women so young they still maintained a sense of androgyny even as their lips were drawn sucking, their bodies contorted along with the adults.

Phichit had dragged him to a _brothel_. And not just any private, respectable establishment - the Ice Castle, a performance hall so lewd that it never failed to be _completely booked_. Yuuri glared down at his younger friend, still clinging to him and whispering into his neck, and wondered how he’d even gotten them in.

He should’ve known better than to expect anything reasonable from Phichit, _especially_ during Saturnalia. Yuuri was always shy, reserved – completely at odds with the public drunkenness, public sexuality, public overindulgance that happened ever year, but Phichit had a way of putting him in unexpected situations. Last year during Saturnalia they’d spent a night in jail after sneaking into an upscale public bath house frequented by the highest nobility after both losing their papers identifying them as House Cialdini.

Or, well, he’d spent the night in jail. Phichit had spent the night getting fucked by the city’s royal elite after seducing the guard - something Yuuri flatly refused to do. He’d gotten out by giving the on-duty officer a hand job the next morning, though.

Somehow, a visit to the Ice Castle was still more embarrassing.

Yuuri recognized some of the people here, was the worst part. Even in the dark lighting, their silk sashes gleamed and ther jewels glittered. Sashes of all colors blanketed the bodies around him, the highest of nobility given the best seating, being waited upon by boys dripping with chains and jewels. They could just reach out, grab a handful of flesh, take what they wanted-

“I have a surprise for you,” Phichit slurred at him, hands on Yuuri’s stomach, moving dangerously close to his crotch.

“What is it?” Yuuri slurred right back. Were the people in the frescoes moving, or was it just him? He saw a beautiful alabaster dancer with a wisp of silver hair, a soft hand reaching out to him, something strange lurking behind his beautiful eyes-

“If I _told_ you,” Phichit chided into the crook of his neck, as though explaining to a child, “it wouldn’t be a _surprise_.”

Yuuri frowned. He wasn’t sure he trusted what Phichit was up to – they’d become fast friends in the few years since Celestino had taken him on as an assistant with running the household, since Yuuri had proven completely useless at that, and Yuuri was glad to have someone his own age around. It had been a lonely few years with just Celestino for company, what with Minako gone.

He blinked. No. Don’t think about that, don’t think about it.

Yuuri swallowed thickly and took another drink. Phichit winked at him again. He supposed Phichit must be drunk as well, and anyway, it wasn’t his fault that being in whorehouses, especially those staffed with slaves, made Yuuri so uncomfortable. It wasn’t as though Yuuri had been open with him about that, about anything.

The fresco was reaching towards him again, but this time the blue eyes were filled with tears, and there was an ugly smear of red all across it-

It was time for the performance to begin. The heavy curtain rose up, revealing naked, painted bodies, just like those on the wall. The most beautiful men and boys in all the city, decorated like dolls.

The decor on stage was sparse, but what little was there was as ostentatious as the scenes on the walls. Gold-leaf edged leaves and a curved altar in the middle of the stage with a nubile, naked man carved into it, erect cock seeming somehow cold and painfully hard.

The light, airy trill of a flute began, and the dancers flitted about, hips moving with the music.

The dancers were naked, save for dangling jewelry with silver bells at the end and loose, floaty silk, see through and draped around their hips. Patrons howled and whistled at the sensual movements.

One of the dancers lifted his leg in an elegant pirouette – not quite as sensual as the others, almost like he was a dancer for the fun of it, or had been before. He had a mop of straw-yellow hair and an expression like he was attending a funeral. It seared Yuuri, through his drunken haze.

The dancer hit his ankle on an onstage prop, and Yuuri saw his mouth curve in a nasty swear before he tumbled over. It was strange, somehow – it broke through the veneer of perfect, doll-like slaves, somehow. Within seconds, he was being ushered off the stage, and the dancers shifted positions as though he’d never been there.

The music changed to something more sinister, and the dancers feigned ignorance, continuing to flutter around.

Yuuri went very cold. So many brothel performances started the same, it was difficult to tell what was what – but this trill of flute was embedded in Yuuri’s memory like a poison.

_The trill of the flute got darker, somehow. Yuuri blinked, watching the silver-haired dancer from a keyhole in the door to the smoky boudoir, inhaling sticky-sweet tobacco secondhand from the pipes the men_ _were_ _smoking. He was beautiful, skin like ivory, and Yuuri wondered why he hadn’t let him see this before. His body was so smooth, rippling like silk, like the waves as they lapped gently along the short._

_The flute got darker, and suddenly someone was grabbing the dancing boy, his waist so thin the man’s rough fingers circle around it entirely. Laughter, and Yuuri didn’t understand what was happening until the boy was bent over and sobbing on a table, and Yuuri screamed so loud he swore the gods above must have been able to hear it-_

For a moment, Yuuri thought the man lumbering onto the stage was an animatronic. He was huge, grotesque, thick arms ending in fat, meaty hands - and the _thing_ between his thighs seemed as unimaginably big as the rest of him.

Yuuri wasn’t sure it was real at first - it could’ve been a particularly large dildo, just for the show. He’d grown up in and around dance halls, and he knew they kept those things around.

It certainly looked real, though. It swung between his legs like it was real. The nearest dancer shied away from it like it was real. His mask was covered in curled faux-fur which, in the hot white stage lights, seemed fused with his skin. Drunk as he was, Yuuri half-believed that this actor was really a satyr, brought down to earth to punish the beautiful Ganymede.

Yuuri knew the story well. He knew it, he hated it. Patrons paid good money in brothels all across the city to watch Ganymede be brutalized, they’d pull out their cocks and stroke them to the sounds and sight of a slave boy sprawled on the stage, weeping either genuine or not, it didn’t matter to them.

Yuuri looked around with disgust to find just that happening.

One by one, the satyr picked up the dancers, now fluttering around in a dance that was clearly meant to mime panic, and sat them upon his fat cock. He didn’t penetrate, just held the boys up with his fat hands and slid their lower bodies along his member. They moved their hips in a way that was supposed to be erotic, but Yuuri just felt nauseous.

He turned to Phichit to find him asleep on the table. Yuuri rolled his eyes.

The music changed again, this time turning light, airy, gentle. An angel descended from above, a silver mask covering his face, long white hair strung up in a braid that bounced off his shoulder as he twirled. _Ganymede_.

The remaining boy dancers floated offstage, a few of them with an uncomfortable looking limp, and the satyr made a show of shifting into the shadows.

He was absolutely beautiful. Skin like polished marble, hair like rippling silk. Yuuri had heard the way people talked about the dancer on stage – the Ice Prince, the star of the brothel. His skin supposedly felt like satin, his body opened to clients like a blooming rose. His mouth was warm and soft like a peach.

Yuuri had heard it all from his rich classmates, from Celestino’s circle of friends from court. He made a point of avoiding brothels, and yet he’d still heard more than he ever cared to about the Ice Prince.

Despite his distaste for the whole affair, Yuuri couldn’t help but admire the way the Ice Prince moved, the grace in his limbs, accented by the floaty silver neglige wrapped around him. It tugged at his heart, strangely - the swirl of the silver braid with bells woven through it, the motion of his body.

Yuuri was hypnotized by his dance, even the eroticism of it. It was beautiful, melancholy. It didn’t belong on this stage, surrounded by filth and bawdiness.

The satyr leapt out from the bushes, and the music turned flighty and frantic. The ice prince and the beast danced across the stage, the ice prince long-limbed and slender, body curving just so that his fear was enticing to the audience around him.

Yuuri knew that the ice prince wouldn’t get away, not really. The audience wanted to watch him be fucked, his beautiful body split open for their pleasure. The satyr grabbed the dancer and tossed him to the stage floor, before the carved white altar. He scrambled back with a fear that seemed a little too real for Yuuri’s taste, and he scowled at the laughter around him.

Ganymede kicked out theatrically and the satyr grabbed his porcelain ankle, dragging him forward. He straddled Ganymede from behind his head, fat cock hanging low over his face, and he guided it to Ganymede’s plush pink lips.

Yuuri watched in awe as Ganymede accomodated the huge member, how his lips opened wider and wider as the satyr pushed his length further in. The view had been carefully considered, and Ganymede lay with legs splayed out so the audience could see his limp cock, his ass, as the satyr fucked his face with brutal thrusts. There was a slight bulge in his throat from the satyr’s tip, moving up and down.

Ganymede coughed as the satyr pulled out, a string of precome and saliva clinging to his lips. The coughing was forceful enough that Yuuri knew it was genuine, and he winced in sympathy as the satyr dragged Ganymede to drape him over the altar.

The satyr slapped his bare ass hard enough to leave a flaming red mark, then pulled his cheek back to expose his pink, twitching hole. This drew a howl of laughter from the audience, and without any further preparation, the satyr plunged into him.

Yuuri couldn’t see Ganymede’s face at this point, but he heard the sharp cry that echoed through the room, cutting off into a series of choking gasps as the satyr fucked him brutally. The satyr pulled out for just a moment, taking the time to show the audience Ganymede’s now red, slick hole, lifting one lithe leg up until Ganymede was doing a standing split to expose as much as possible.

He leaned over Ganymede and Ganymede brought his elbow up in a sharp burst, hitting the satyr in the neck. Yuuri smiled, but his grin quickly contorted into a wince as the satyr shoved himself back inside with Ganymede’s leg still stuck up in the air.

Yuuri had enough dance training to know that position must’ve been excruciating, even for someone as flexible as this dancer seemed to be, and his body clenched and tightening around the cock inside him. The noises he was making were pained, high-pitched.

Someone was tugging his sleeve again, distracting him. The young slave from earlier stared up at him, somehow even more sullen than before.

“If my _master_ would be so inclined,” he said, spasming into a curtsey, “He has paid for the pleasure of being Melchior in tonight’s performance.”

Yuuri blinked. He certainly hadn’t, but – _oh_. He turned to Phichit, still fast asleep on the table. So, this was his surprise.

“I’m not sure,” Yuuri began, but the boy glowered and grabbed his hand.

“Don’t be stupid,” he spat, “Everyone wants this stupid fucking part.”

Yuuri was too drunk to argue. The boy didn’t let go of his hand, dragging him along as though he was an unruly child. He followed the boy into a simple dressing room, just off the stage, so he could still see the satyr ravishing Ganymede under the hot stage lights.

Someone saw the boy gripping his hand, and before Yuuri could say anything, brought a branch down on his shoulder with a sharp _crack_.

“Don’t touch the patrons,” the man hissed as the boy shrieked in pain and rubbed at his red shoulder, scowling. He turned to Yuuri and said, “I’m ever so sorry, master, may I offer you-”

“It’s alright,” Yuuri managed, eyes wide, everything coming through sort of fuzzy. He tried to focus on the man’s face, but the sharp crack of the birch branch was so loud in his mind. The boy’s skin was so white, and the branch had made such an ugly red mark, and Yuuri blinked as they boy’s hair turned from gold to silver and back in his mind.

Yuuri couldn’t focus on what was happening with the slave boy. The grunting, the cries were even louder from here. They pounded at Yuuri’s head along with the alcohol he’d drunk. He ventured a glance at the obscene scene playing out before him. Ganymede was on his back now, legs still split, long hair dripping like molten silver over the altar.

Even with his basic knowledge of dance-halls, he struggled to imagine how anyone could accommodate something so big, even with all the preparation in the world. Indeed, Ganymede’s eyes were screwed shut, his mouth parted to allow desperate pants and gasps to burst from it. Yuuri saw the sheen of sweat on his forehead, saw the tremble in his limbs.

He frowned in Phichit’s direction, where he was snoozing in the audience. Why had he assumed Yuuri wanted this?

The young slave applied a bit of powder to him and placed a glittering mask over his cheeks. It was bright, dizzy, and almost threw off his balance with its baubles.

A choked off cry caught his attention. The satyr held Ganymede by the hips, impaling him even further onto him. Then, though he weighed no more than a doll, pulled him off till his tip barely peeked out from inside, and _forced_ him back down all the way.

Ganymede’s icy blue eyes flew open, lips parted in a shocked “o,” and something stirred in Yuuri that he couldn’t quite place.

_The door burst open, and he met the gaze of the dancer. His eyes widened, red-rimmed and teary, his lips parted in a shocked “o.”_

There was a sheen of red on the satyr’s cock. Ganymede, the ice prince, he wasn’t crying, though he must have been in so much pain. Yuuri watched, trembling, sick with memory. Time seemed to slow down as he watched, transfixed by the ice prince’s trembling body. His hands were clenched so tight his knuckles were white.

The satyr pulled out of his ass and thrust his cock into Ganymede’s mouth one more time. Blood smeared on his pink lips.

Everything went black.

The next thing Yuuri knew, he was on stage, standing over Ganymede’s trembling body. The satyr was scrambling to his feet below them both, in the audience. Yuuri looked down at his knuckles and saw fresh, bleeding scabs on them, saw the satyr clutching his nose in fury.

Had he done that? Had he pushed the satyr off the stage?

Yuuri didn’t want to be there. He wanted to give the ice prince his hand and take them both far away from this place. The crowd was mostly silent, unsure of what had happened. The satyr snarled and stormed off, cock still achingly hard, but he couldn’t come back onstage now and risk upsetting a patron. Small victories.

Ganymede fixed Yuuri with a carefully placed smile, a veneer of gratefulness that Yuuri enjoyed despite himself. Yuuri sunk to his knees beside the slave dancer, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. Ganymede pressed his cheek against Yuuri’s calloused hand with an expression so soft and delicate that it broke Yuuri’s heart.

For the first time, Yuuri _wanted_ to be Melchior. He wanted to play a part in this drama. How had he heard the story told?

 _And then Melchior cradled Ganymede’s ravished body in his arms and kissed him, pouring his god-like power back into those bruised limbs_.

“You did so well,” Yuuri murmured against Ganymede’s swollen mouth. He ran a trembling thumb over Ganymede’s cheek, then brought their lips together for a gentle kiss.

Ganymede kissed him back, the slightest, tentative hint of tongue pressing against his mouth, a low moan pouring into him. It sounded like-

Yuuri’s eyes flew open to meet the slave’s icy blue stare.

No, no. Something was coming back to him, creeping out from the shadows of his mind.

Was the hair before him really silver? Were his eyes really the same ice blue?

Yuuri reached out with trembling hands and Ganymede closed his eyes like he thought Yuuri was going to kiss him again.

Instead, Yuuri grasped Ganymede’s mask and wrenched it from him, tossing it to the side.

Ganymede’s eyes flew open in shock, his lips parted and pink. A flash of fear passed through that familiar stare.

 _No,_ Yuuri thought, _no - it can’t be, Victor?_

Ganymede reached out a hand to him and Yuuri flinched away like he’d been burned.

_No, no-_

_It can’t be you, because…_

_Because you’re dead._

Everyone was staring. Yuuri’s hands were tingling and cold - a panic attack was settling in. He pushed Ganymede away harder than he’d mean to and bolted off the stage.

The way his eyes crinkled in fear, Yuuri knew it. He knew it so well.

“ _Don’t look,” Victor sobbed, hiding his face in his hands, “Don’t look, Yuuri, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry-”_

“ _Stop it,” Yuuri screamed, beating his tiny fists against the man’s shoulder, “You’re hurting him, stop it-”_

“ _I’m sorry,” Victor sobbed, again and again and again, “Yuuri, I’m so sorry, I can’t help it.”_

“ _He’s a slave, stupid boy, it’s what he was born for, get out_ now _-”_

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the satyr from earlier, rutting his still hard cock against the blonde slave’s trembling thighs. His head was turned away in disgust, and when he saw Yuuri running, he fixed him with an icy, furious stare.

He ran.

The Ice Castle was long behind him. Yuuri didn’t know where he was or where he was going, he just needed to escape from what his mind was showing him. Not Victor, it wasn’t Victor, Victor was dead.

When Yuuri learned what his lord did to Victor every night, it nearly broke him. When his lord learned that Victor had made the choice, for the first time in his life, to willingly give his heart to someone, he nearly killed them both. Yuuri still woke up in the middle of the night to the sound of Victor screaming.

He tripped over a bottle someone had dropped during the night and stumbled headlong into a pile of garbage by the side of the road. Yuuri vomited, body heaving – he threw up until his head pounded and he couldn’t feel anything but the burn in his throat and the sting of his scraped hands.

Then, Yuuri passed out, everything disappearing in a flash of silver.

* * *

_The Rape of Ganymede_ was one of Victor’s favorite stories. It was one of the first that he learned when he was brought over from his homeland. This strange new world was full of strange gods with strange customs he didn’t understand. The customs were drilled into him with brutal, unending repetition. Victor’s body became a taut, buzzing wire of pain, and then when they’d worked him beyond the limits of what he could endure, they’d read him their myths and legends.

Victor remembered pretending it was a bedtime story. They snarled the stories at him in the rough tongue of his new country, and he clung onto the words, repeating them back to his trainers. He’d pretend they were reading him to sleep. He’d sit straight as a rod, just as he’d been taught, and pretend he was somewhere else. Now, it was like Victor couldn’t feel his body at all.

The Rape of Ganymede, though. The gods here were capricious, cruel. Victor didn’t understand him. His god loved him, loved all the living creatures on earth. They’d created a forest filled with spirits, filled with nymphs and fairies and satyrs, and they watched the satyrs pick up the fairys by their wings and fuck them, watched the nymphs play cruel games on humans walking through the trees.

The Ganymede was born, and even as a child, his beauty was unmatched. He had hair the color of wheat in the morning sunshine, eyes the deep blue of the summer sky. He was beautiful, and the gods were cruel. Melchior, the god of war, was instantly taken with this human boy. When he’d walk through the forest, Melchior would watch him from above – watch him dance, watch him bathe naked in the crystal streams.

Io, god of the creatures of the earth, was jealous and spiteful and in love with Melchior himself. He knew a satyr wouldn’t be able to resist someone so beautiful, so he put one in the glade while Ganymede was bathing. Ganymede couldn’t get away.

Victor cried the first time they told him the story. He’d cried until his body shook, he didn’t stop crying even as they beat the backs of his hands again and again in anger. He sobbed, “Why did they hurt him? Why did they hurt him?” until his head throbbed with the force of his crying.

Why would the gods allow Ganymede to be raped with such brutality? He’d done nothing wrong! He was young, and beautiful, and he’d never been with anyone before the gods forced the satyr upon him. It was so unbelievably cruel, and Victor found that it reflected the cruelty of the world he’d been forced into, as well.

And then Melchior heard Ganymede’s cries for help, his weeping. He found him in the glade, by the river, running red with his blood – Victor remembered the blood, had nightmares of crystal clear water tarnished with swirls of red for years as he was trained to be a pleasure slave and bled himself – and slayed the satyr where he stood. He saw Ganymede’s broken body and draped himself over it, taking the pain and replacing it with sweet, sweet pleasure, making love to him until the moon was high in the night sky.

Melchior saved him. He took Ganymede’s body in his arms, wrapped him in a blanket of stars and moonlight, and took him far, far away from the world with cruel creatures and vindictive gods. Victor wondered, sometimes, if Ganymede saw Io and hated him. Ganymede lived with the gods, now. He knew what Io had done. Could Ganymede ever forgive him?

Victor had made the mistake of asking once, and was rewarded with lashes on his thighs that bled for days.

He knew better now. He didn’t ask questions, didn’t think too hard about anything at all. His head was floaty, empty, and blank. The only thing that remained were his lessons, and the story of Ganymede, wrapped up in his blanket of stars with Melchior beside him.

* * *

Yuri’s hands were trembling, Victor noticed. Even after a year at the Ice Castle, he still saw the same spark of fear in his eyes before every single performance. It must’ve been exhausting, Victor thought, to be afraid all the time. He didn’t understand it – it was so much easier to go away, to float, to not be afraid anymore. When Yuri was afraid, he didn’t dance as well, or he wouldn’t perform as well with a client, and he’d be beaten.

 _Just go away from it all._ Victor didn’t understand it, but then, he had been born a slave - unlike Yuri, who had been sold off after fourteen years of freedom by a mother with not enough money and too many debts. He’d been born a slave, and was trained in how to separate from his body at one of the best training houses in the whole empire.

Sometimes, Victor would pretend that Yuri’s mistake was his own, since he could take it better. Sometimes. But Yuri was in trouble so often, and Victor was so much older, his body not recovering quite as fast as it used to, and-

“Guess who personally requested to play the satyr tonight,” came a sharp voice from behind the pair, equal parts wry and frustrated. Mila, the muscle of the Ice Castle, with her short red hair and piercing blue stare.

A jolt of fear bubbled up in Victor, unbidden, and he fought to stamp it down. What did it matter? Was Victor really surprised? He’d been fucked by that man so many times his body had the shape of his cock memorized, every awful, painful inch of it. It wasn’t even as bad as some of the times when he was younger. It was just _pain,_ and pain he could handle easily.

“And Yakov’s just going to let him?” came Yuri’s voice, high pitched with fear. It felt distant, somehow, though Yuri was right beside him. “That spineless _bastard_.”

“Watch yourself,” Mila snapped at him, “Anyone important hears you talking like that and you’ll be working double shifts.”

Yuri went pale and his mouth snapped shut. Victor knew Yuri would likely be working double shifts anyway, but telling him that wouldn’t help. It made it easier, somehow, expecting the worst always around the corner. That way when it was good it felt even better.

Mila’s face softened and she raised her palms apologetically. “Sorry, Victor - Yakov’s hands are tied. You know how the beast can get. Gods, he reminds me of my baby cousin, wailing when his mother won’t give him a sweet. Except, you know. Horny.”

Victor smiled, softly. It had taken him a moment to realize that Mila was even speaking to him. Mila could get away with such talk, but his tongue was tied. He turned to Yuri and slicked back a flyaway into his braid reflexively, murmuring, “Fetch me the oil, and a dildo. The biggest one you can find.”

The beast’s cock was really the only thing noteworthy about him, the only thing that set him apart from Victor’s other clients. It was huge, and thick, visible even under his robes and sash – and he knew how to use it in the most brutal way possible, often combined with his fingers. If Victor wanted to walk tomorrow, he’d need to stretch himself wide enough to take a stallion.

Yuri dashed out and Mila put her hand on Victor shoulder. Victor jolted, but Mila didn’t notice. “Don’t tell him I said this,” she murmured, “But I’m worried about him. He’s been here a year now, and we’re still getting the same complaints about him. Too smart, not compliant enough - if this keeps up, you know Yakov will have no choice but to sell him off. Then we’ll have _no_ control in how he’s treated.”

“He’s improving,” Victor lied, plastering a fake confidence over his face. “Have a little mercy, Mila - it must be hard for him to be here and not home, with his family.”

“Hey, I like him. It’s not _my_ mercy he needs,” Mila warned. Her tone changed, then, and suddenly her voice was weary. “You and I both know that giving up is the only way to get through this.”

Victor grimaced. It sounded so hopeless when she put it like that. Had he really given up? What was there even to give up on? This was just his life. There was nothing more to it.

_I’ll come back for you, I swear it!_

No. Victor shuddered, full bodied. Maybe there was a point where he gave up. Gave up on seeing _him_ again, unable to think of anything but the aching hunger in his belly, the way his body spasmed in a sorry excuse for a dance on the dockside whorehouse stage, the way he’d sob the whole time afterwards while they fucked him, begging them for scraps of food which he’d swallow down desperately along with their cocks in his mouth-

Tied to the bed, the ropes biting into his wrists, bruised and bloody and realizing that _he_ was never coming back.

_I’ll never leave you, I love you._

How many times had he heard those words echoing in his mind as some rough dockworker or sailor forced themselves inside him? Whole nights servicing more men than his young body could handle, until he was bruised and bleeding, and all the while that soft, gentle voice from his memory mocked him.

Oh, _no_ \- he was letting himself think about it again. Even nearly a decade later, the memories of the other whorehouses he worked in made every ounce of energy seep from his body. They latched onto him like leeches, and even the threat of more work of a vicious beating couldn’t pull him back.

Luckily, in that moment, Yuri burst in, the massive dildo in his hand crashing against the doorpost loud enough to startle Victor out of his reverie.

Mila slipped quietly out the door, locking eyes with Victor pointedly one last time.

“Ugh,” Yuri sniffed, “How do you expect to fit this thing inside you?”

Victor didn’t respond, just smiled, thin-lipped and tired. “You should really think about working up to something like this, too.”

Yuri’s eyes bugged out almost comically wide. “Gross!” he spit out, taking a step back. “You can’t be serious.”

“And what will happen if you don’t?” Victor tapped his chin, cocking his head to the side. “And someone with a massive cock buys you? You think they’ll let you refuse?”

There was something about the expression on Yuri’s face that made a cold chill trickle up Victor’s spine. Why did he look so terrified at that, why did he look like he was about to cry? When Victor was his age – well, he cried, he supposed, but not because of what they might do to him. Taking cocks bigger than he was used to was practically mundane, anyway.

Victor slipped off his gossamer robe, turning away from Yuri and his pained expression, away from his own appearance in the mirror. A cool breeze caressed his naked body, and Victor’s breath caught in his throat as he ran a gentle hand over his arm. The hair on his forearm stood up. It was strange, almost. It didn’t feel as though he was touching himself – it was though both his own hand and his own arm were separate, disembodied sensations.

Behind him came the _pop_ of a vial opening, the squelch of Yuri slicking up a dildo, which he passed on to Victor with clear disgust.

Victor sighed and screwed the dildo in place – there was a bench specifically for this, to put in bigger and bigger dildos until Victor was stretched so wide he felt like his insides would fall out. One of the benefits of the Ice Castle, unlike Victor’s previous place, where he’d shove his own trembling hands inside himself and hope it was enough.

He sunk down easily. Victor sighed. It was mechanical, at this point – Victor wriggled his hips just a little before replacing the dildo with a thicker one and sinking down onto that as well, just a little bit slower, body accomodating it easily.

“I don’t want to watch this,” Yuri sniffed. His cheeks were flushed bright red, and he fidgited in embarrassment. He couldn’t look at Victor, staring down at his own curling toes.

Victor supposed there was a time where he might have thought the same – there was a memory deep inside him, walking through a square he barely remembered, holding a hand much bigger than him, turning his head away while someone sobbed and writhed right before his eyes – but it had long since disappeared. His body was for everyone’s consumption. He didn’t get to hide it, hide what happened to it.

“Go put your makeup on,” Victor murmured. “Fix it, that is. You’re so pretty, Yuri, I don’t know why you make yourself look like this.”

Yuri glowered. “I don’t want to be pretty. I want to be ugly.”

Victor switched out the dildo for something wider. He was about to argue back, but at the sight of Victor sinking down, brow furrowing with the stretch, Yuri squeaked and whirled around to face the mirror, busying his hands and eyes with re-doing his mascara.

It barely felt like anything, anymore. Victor shuddered as he tried to take the thicker dildo, felt the resistance in his body as he bore down on it, thighs trembling with the strain of holding himself up. Yuri was still looking away, pointedly, shoulders tense in humiliation, but Victor decided he didn’t need to comment on that. He’d never thought of this as humiliating, not really, and there was something unpleasant about the way Yuri reacted to the hedonism, the open fucking, of a place like the Ice Castle.

The dildo sat thickly inside Victor, pressing firmly against his sore muscles. He whimpered softly as he fucked himself on it, getting used to the way it felt deep inside him, thrusting against his walls. It didn’t feel good, but it didn’t hurt. That was the important thing.

He slid off this dildo with a slick _pop_ , pausing to catch his breath. One more to go, he thought, shuddering, as he swapped the dildo out for one even thicker. He sat himself on top of it, the tip pressing firmly against his slick rim, and forced his body to go limp. At least he had a chance to breathe, here. He could take as much time as he needed, let the dildo slide in inch by agonizing inch, stretching him apart like a leather hide left to hang and dry before a fire.

“...bet Ganymede always got to enjoy himself,” Victor heard being muttered from somewhere far off. “When _I_ get chained up and fucked I always feel like shit afterwards. I bet they even made him come, sometimes.”

That was the other interpretation of the story of Ganymede. Melchior had seen how the satyr ravished Ganymede and knew that if he would never be safe, not with a beautiful face and body like that. He fucked Ganymede himself because he couldn’t help it, then when it was all over, took him back to his palace and chained him away, gave him food and drink and comfort, but kept him prisoner in the stars forever.

Sweat was beading on Victor’s brow with the strain of sinking down onto this dildo. It was so, so big, so thick. The cockhead itself was thicker around than his own fist, and his body rejected it, rejected the agonizing stretch in his ass. His rim stretched and trembled, stinging like it was about to tear – but it wouldn’t. He wouldn’t tear. Not if he was slow and careful.

“They made getting fucked every day seem so romantic,” the boy grumbled again, “I didn’t realize it would be like this.”

That version is wrong, Victor wanted to scream at them. Ganymede would go with Melchior willingly, he’d suck Melchoir’s cock because he was grateful, because he loved him, not because he was forced to. The stories they told the boys at whorehouses were different than the ones Victor learned during his training.

A sheen of sweat covered Victor’s whole body as he finally bottomed out on the dildo. He whimpered, whole body trembling, and he placed a hand over his belly. He could feel the dildo there, if he pressed on it, firm and unyielding.

Victor moved his hips unconsciously. His thighs burned with the effort of standing up enough for the dildo to pop out of him, but he had to. He had to fuck himself on this thing, or he’d hurt so badly later. Squeezing his eyes shut, he began to ride the dildo, slowly at first, then faster. Each thrust hit so deep inside him Victor was sure it was touching his stomach, a low thud of pain. The beast would fuck him with all the force of a jackhammer, so if he was gentle now, he’d just regret it later.

Victor wiped away the sweat on his upper lip. No one was looking at him, at the pathetic little sounds he was making. Yuri was deliberately looking away, and something panged in Victor’s chest. Was this embarrassing? Should he be humiliated?

When he was little, he’d try to cover his naked body with his hands, but every time he did they’d beat them raw and bloody. Why did he try to do that? Why did he scream out once, so long ago, _don’t look, Yuuri, I’m sorry, please don’t look-_

There was a sharp jab of incredible pain and Victor _screamed_.

Everything seemed to stop for a second. His body went rigid as he forced himself off the dildo, falling backwards onto his ass and causing another jolt of pain. Victor screamed again, hands flying up to cover his face.

“Victor,” Yuri cried, dropping the dripping mascara brush onto the floor, the thick black goop smearing on his cheekbone as he blinked in horror, and grabbing his arm. “Victor, what’s wrong? What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

Victor couldn’t answer. He was cold, all of a sudden, so cold. The room was blurry. His hands were numb and trembling.

“ _What’s going on in here?_ ” Came Yakov’s booming voice, and suddenly the boys, gathered around to watch Victor, scattered like mice.

“Nothing,” Victor heard himself say, far outside his own head, “Nothing, Yakov.”

He clambered to his knees, breathing hard while Yuri gripped his arm so hard it hurt him. He was going to be bruised for the performance, and the beast would be angry about that. Victor knelt on the floor for a long moment, breathing in and out slowly. At least he had time for that now, he could rest a moment before the performance.

Victor was stretched out enough, he decided. He checked his swollen rim for tears, if that’s what the pain was, and found he was solidly intact. Small victories.

He gave Yuri a soft smile, not wanting him to worry. “You look much better like this.”

Yuri’s worried expression turned dark, and he turned away from Victor, snarling, “That’s not a good thing, you fucking weirdo.”

“Of course,” Victor said placidly, which seemed to make Yuri even angrier. He took a damp cloth and wiped away the mascara there, gently. Yuri leaned into the touch. “Help me with my makeup, now?”

Yuri nodded, still glowering, but he fluttered about with powder and blush all the same. His thin hands were soft and gentle against Victor’s skin as he wiped away the sweat from it.

The boys were talking about Ganymede again, each of them flipping a small token to the votive statue of him in the dressing room.

“Shut up about Ganymede,” Yuri snarled at them, throwing a brush in their direction. They yelped and scampered away, flushing and looking back nervously. Two boys Victor hadn’t bothered to learn the names of, both pale and pretty. From the eastern territories, it looked like, not Victor’s in the north.

“I hate that story,” Yuri snapped, sliding a mascara stick along Victor’s lashes, “It’s so sad. Ganymede didn’t deserve that.”

There was a strange lump in Victor’s throat. “I knew someone else who said that, once,” he whispered.

* * *

There were many reasons Yakov couldn’t refuse the beast’s demands, or so he claimed. When Victor was feeling particularly ungrateful, he recited the reasons in his head, which he’d heard Yakov guiltily mutter in his direction at least a dozen times.

The first reason, of course, was money - money was king and god all at once at the Ice Castle. The patronage the beast provided, in exchange for any slave he wanted, whenever he wanted, was enough to cover food and bedding and makeup for half the slaves in the brothel.

The second was prestige – Victor didn’t know exactly what position the beast had, but it was high up. He wore a special, silken sash, indicative of those in the highest positions at court. It was a lush green color, so soft to the touch – there were different sashes of different colors indicating rank. It was all so confusing to Victor, ranking people like that. The beast wasn’t some great hunter, or some great mind, like those of high rank in his village – and Victor didn’t understand what made someone a green-sash or a blue-sash or any of that. He supposed he was too stupid to understand. He was stupid about a lot of things here, really.

The third reason was a recurring fixture in Victor’s nightmares. The beast loved to tinker - with sex toys and torture devices that Victor often found himself on the receiving end of, and with stage mechanics, which were partly what set the Ice Castle apart from other establishments.

Victor set a shaky foot inside the box and grit his teeth as a stagehand lifted it high above the dancers below. If it broke and he went tumbling all the way to the stage, his life would be over. How could he fuck with broken legs? He supposed if he could just lie there, if he could grit his teeth through the pain, they might let him live rather than put him down-

In his fear, he barely registered the satyr ravishing the youngest slaves in the establishment on the stage underneath him – he wasn’t supposed to actually fuck them. The youngest ones could wind up being best sellers when they were a bit older, so he wasn’t allowed to put his cock in them completely. They were safe, or at least safe enough that they wouldn’t be literally torn open on stage. Victor didn’t like to look at their faces while it happened, though, so he focused on the way his toes curled, painted blue, and on how the mask sat heavily on his face.

The music changed. There was his cue. The lift descended to the ground below, and Victor all but leapt off it. He let the music sweep over him, and he inhaled into the sweet music of a flute. This was easy, calming - he loved dancing, dancing had saved his life on more than one occasion. His body was lithe and graceful, his limbs powerful.

When he danced, his mind went away from all _this._ He was in the middle of a village, twirling around a bonfire, while people he couldn’t remember but he knew he loved clapped and laughed with him. He was holding someone’s hands, dancing in the dark of the night in the library where no one could see them. He was free.

The music changed and Victor was pulled out of the reverie of dancing. He was fine, this was fine, he thought as he prepared himself for what was to come, grateful for how loose and stretched he already was.

He fake-fled half-heartedly, barely registering when he was on his back, the beast’s heavy cock hovering by his lips. The smell was awful, but there was nothing he could do but lay there and let the beast fuck his mouth.

Victor thought of snakes, who could unhinge their jaws to devour prey larger than their bodies, and wished for that bone structure now as his jaw strained to take the cock in deeper. He didn’t have a gag reflex, hadn’t had one since he was younger than Yuri, but it was still a hot, thick intrusion that his body rebelled against.

His throat stretched like his ass earlier. A heavy weight settled there, then slid up and down so deep that Victor could _feel_ rather than taste the thick precum in his throat.

The beast pulled out, then, leaving him gagging as he draped him over the altar, trying to compose himself as he was spread open for the enjoyment of the audience. Then, without preamble, the beast shoved himself in.

It _burned_ , even with the prep from earlier. He stretched, and stretched, and knew that even after a hundred men a day he could never be loose enough to take all of this in at once.

The beast pressed in deeper, until his balls were flush against Victor’s ass, then began to thrust in earnest. Victor cried out sharply at the grinding thrusts, the deep, full ache inside him. It wasn’t awful, though, and Victor’s thoughts drifted away to a hot summer day and sweet ripe plums dripping down his arms. When was the last time he’d eaten a plum?

“Hey, _Ice Prince_ , where’s your empty head at?”

 _Shit_ , the beast had noticed. He should’ve known better than to drift off like that, but he’d done this _so many times_ -

The beast pulled out of him and lifted his leg up until it stretched, painfully, over his head. Normally, Victor would relish the slow burn of this movement, but here it was ugly, forced - even moreso when the beast slipped a fat finger inside of him and pulled his cheeks apart to show the audience how ravished, how red his hole was.

“You’re so fucking loose and sloppy,” the beast snarled, “Bet you like this, hm? Answer me.”

“Yes,” Victor murmured, “I do like it. I like being so stretched out for you.”

“You take it so well, too,” the beast hissed, still thrusting. “I can’t believe I haven’t grown tired of you. Every time you cry, every time you beg me for my cock, it’s just like the first time all over again. Except tonight, you’re too fucking loose.”

Too loose, and it still hurt terribly. Victor whimpered. Maybe if he showed more intensely that he was in pain, maybe if he started to cry, wasn’t there something he could do? The beast was going to tell Yakov he’d been too loose, and then he was going to hurt him more. He wanted it to stop, he wanted it all to stop, please god make it stop-

No, _no_. Why was he still thinking like that? He couldn’t stop it, it wouldn’t stop if he wanted it to, he just needed to lie here and endure and there was no point in being upset about it. None at all. He wasn’t here, he was up in the stars.

The beast cackled and Victor was filled with icy terror. Suddenly, the burn was _worse_ , and the cock was back at his entrance, and he was gripping the table to keep steady as he was stretched to his limits, inside and out.

Oh god, he was going to be torn in two - the beast was going to rip his leg clean off. His ass clenched at the awful position and was rewarded with a sharp, stabbing pain against his walls as his whole body constricted. There was a constant pounding at his tender walls, too big to touch the spot inside him, even if that was allowed-

The beast was laughing, and tears beaded at the corners of his eyes, and suddenly he was on his back and staring into the awful, unforgiving eyes above him. Precome dripped out of his too-lose hole and down his thigh, and claws scratched and pinched his pink nipples until they ached like the rest of him.

The beast gripped his hips and pulled him out, until all that was left was a dull, empty ache and the round tip still stretching his hole - then _slammed_ himself back in.

It was all Victor could do to stop himself from screaming. His eyes flew open as the beast fucked him harder, pushing him to his limits.

Nights like this, when it felt like the fucking would never end, his mind crept back to his last dancehall by the docks, twirling through a routine only to have some rough sailor grab him halfway through and ravish him right there, and Victor would pray that his tights were the only thing they tore.

When the beast shoved his cock back in Victor’s mouth, it tasted metallic. He was bleeding, then, he was bleeding and being forced to swallow his own blood down. He knew what his blood tasted like, the tang was so familiar from being slapped, from being fucked with a split lip – familiar and yet every time he tasted it he wanted to gag.

His lip wasn’t split now, and his ass hurt in a stinging sort of way. Victor would have to be brave for whoever had bought him then, and hope he wouldn’t last long. If he didn’t, if he wanted to fuck Victor all night long, then-

 _No_! Stop _thinking_ about that, a voice inside him snarled. Tears were streaming down his cheeks as he gagged, smearing his mascara, his makeup that Yuri had applied so painstakingly even though he was so angry.

Everything happened in an instant. The beast had barely taken notice of the fact that Melchoir was stumbling onstage – but no, that wasn’t right, he was supposed to wait until the beast came.

The beast noticed, and he turned with a snarl to tell him so, but before he could think Melchior’s fist had collided with his face once, twice. Melchior snarled, looking manic, and Victor was afraid to look at him. The whorehouse boys, when they told their story – they made Melchior mean because they thought it was more erotic. Victor understood why, then, as he stared up into that angry face.

Then Melchior was before him, gentle and glowing and reeking of liquor. Somedays, Melchior was kind - others, he was selfish, sliding into Victor’s abused body and only getting himself off. This Melchior seemed to melt, no longer angry. He smiled at Victor and placed his hand on his shoulder, and told him that he’d done well.

Victor let himself fall into the fantasy for a moment, and he met the warm amber gaze of Melchior, behind the mask, blanketed by the idea that he’d be taken away to a soft bed and no more men. When he kissed Victor – kissed him! Like a lover would - his lips were so soft, and Victor imagined Melchior laying him down gently, thought it might even be okay if Melchior chained him up, so long as he kissed him softly again.

Then Melchoir was gaping at him, ripping away his mask, and raising his fist to beat him black and blue-

Victor’s fantasy disappeared and he crashed back into the real world, spasming to at least protect his face - but the blow never came. The fear was vivid, acute – he cringed there for a moment, only daring to look up when a few moments had passed but he hadn’t felt any pain.

Then Melchior was running off into the night.

It all happened so fast, Victor’s mind struggled to keep up with the pace of it. Why? What happened? What had he _done_?

Then his thoughts caught up with him and pure terror pooled in the pit of his stomach.

Oh, oh _no_ -

Victor heard a high-pitched, keening wail, and distantly registered that it was coming from him. He sunk to his knees, curling in on himself on stage. His vision swam with tears, his heart pounded hard enough Victor felt like his chest might burst. Oh no, god no, please no-

The sound coming from him got louder, and he knew he needed to move, couldn’t let the audience see him like this. They’d get mad if they saw him acting like this, he couldn’t let them see him like this, but Melchoir had fled from him and he _didn’t know why_.

“Victor,” he heard from somewhere far away. “Victor, c’mon, they said you need to get off the stage.”

Yuri’s voice. Victor couldn’t help the agonized sound that ripped out of him. They’d send him back to the docks for this, they’d beat him until he died, they’d rip him in two and let the audience laugh and watch-

Victor stumbled offstage after a few awful moments of tugging from Yuri. The beast was waiting for him, wiping his sticky hands on his mask, and when he let go Victor caught Yuri out of the corner of his eye, wiping himself down with a towel.

He sunk to his knees and buried his head in the beast’s leg, pleading inwardly for a mercy he knew he wasn’t going to get.

“If I’d known our little lord was going to flee, I’d have waited for you,” the beast purred at him, claws out. He grabbed a fistful of Victor’s braided hair, and Victor wondered if he should start grovelling _now_ or _later_. “C’mon, I think we’re going to need to have a talk with Master Yakov.”

**Author's Note:**

> i have no idea when the next chapter is going up im very sorry


End file.
